


Writ in water

by Ibbyliv



Series: In Paris With You [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Autumn, Bubble Bath, Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Like Romeo and Juliet pretentious, M/M, Stand Alone, The essential pretentious Shakespeare quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2275413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s an eerie silence in the neighborhood, despite the early hour of the evening. The clouds weigh heavy upon his lungs, yellow and rust leaves twirling in the air, against the forlorn sight of the rooftops. Something touches him in a peculiar manner and, before he knows it, bittersweet tears are prickling on the corners of his eyes. “Back, foolish tears, to your native spring,” he chuckles ridiculously in a crackly voice, intimidated with himself, wiping them with the ink smudged heels of his hands.</p><p>“You’ve got ink on your freckles, Capulet boy,” he hears an amused voice from behind his shoulder, and his heart plummets excitedly in his chest as Courfeyrac appears outside and takes a seat on the fire escape, next to him.<br/>*<br/>Jehan has got the morbs, so Courfeyrac prepares him a bubble bath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writ in water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarberryCupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarberryCupcake/gifts).



> My precious, talented and caring friend [StarberryCupcake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StarberryCupcake/pseuds/StarberryCupcake) has her birthday today, so everyone go on her tumblr to praise her, or simply read her beautiful stories, because she is one the most deserving, wonderful human beings I could have asked for <3 I haven't yet wished her Happy Birthday, because I've been working on this story for her since the moment I woke up even though I'd hoped I'd have finished it by today, but procrastination is a horrible thing. That's a pity because it's a silly piece of fluff with no plot or nearly enough smut whatsoever, but I really really hope it will bring a smile on her face!  
> Thank you for everything, love, and please never stop being there, because your mere presence is more than I could ever have dreamt to deserve!  
> The title is from the epitaph on John Keats's grave. Excuse the unnecessary, pretentious Romeo and Juliet quotes. The song that half-inspired this is The Lumineers' Flapper Girl.  
> This is part of my First Day of My Life verse, but it can be read alone. When I reach the point in my bigger story where this will fit, I will say so in the notes.

Jehan has learnt Courfeyrac’s new class schedule by heart, remembering it better than he remembers his own, and better than Courfeyrac himself will ever manage to learn it.

Courfeyrac is generally clingy and overly affectionate, and hates the mornings when Jehan has class or a morning shift at the bookshop earlier than he does, causing him to wake up in an empty bed, while Jehan had always appreciated those precious moments of blissful solitude, him lying in bed with the sole company of his thoughts, sorting his papers in neat stacks only to have a poetic epiphany a few minutes later, and dive into the piles to find his notes on anonymous limericks, or his annotated version of Whitman’s elegy and add something to his school work, or into the small brown notebook that’s tearing around the edges. Yet for the first time in so many years, Jean Prouvaire finds himself dreading theses once treasured moments of solitude, and lives for every soft, sweet breath he’s blessed to share with Courfeyrac, huddling for warmth under the covers in a city that’s gradually getting colder, longing for those irretrievable stray sunrays that will sneak through the puffy, silver clouds in an overcast sky and enter the room through the transparent curtains, breathing life to art so beautiful that begs to be captured by Courfeyrac’s Polaroid lens. A streak of light curving over a pale thigh, tangled feet between the metallic Art Nouveau curves of Jehan’s bed, white, floral sheets contrasting beautifully with the dark skin of Courfeyrac’s chest and the soft curls of hair trailing down his abdomen, sunny slumbers in the meadows of his eyes, all the different shades of chocolate spread in smooth locks over the pillows, meddled with Jehan’s fiery red hair, and the poet wishes the camera lens could capture all the tiny sounds Courfeyrac makes in the morning, the taste of tea in his breath and the sweet dew of frantic love on the small of his back and the firm curves of his thighs.

In the mornings when Courfeyrac leaves, Jehan finds his mind utterly lost in nothing less than every still image, every scent that twirled in his head and every flutter of his heart from the night they passed together, and nothing more than the ticking of the clock that will announce the time when they’ll meet again in the afternoon, at home, or in the early evening when Courfeyrac will bring apple and cinnamon muffins and blackberry cider or giant veggie hot-dogs in Pére Mabeuf’s warm, cozy oasis of a bookshop where the poet works.

When Jehan wakes up this morning, he finds the mattress next to him already cold. It’s Thursday, he thinks groggily, not because he ever had a talent in tracking the days of the week, especially right after waking up, but because the hollow feeling of the day when he has no morning classes, but an exhausting, morning shift instead, has already downed him.

He doesn’t shower, suddenly their building has turned too cold for this dreadful shit. He throws on his most comfortable – and not entirely representative – clothes instead, a soft, maroon sweater that covers his dark floral jeans down to the middle of his thighs, and Grantaire’s green parka that fits a second Jehan inside of it. As every Thursday, it’s a dull morning at the bookshop. Most people are in their work or school and, even though the beginning of autumn manages to bring out the most studious shade in every person, it manages to bring the most catatonic too. They have few customers so he helps Madame Plutarch make some tea and rearrange the Philosophy section, giving extra care to the beautiful editions of the School of Frankfurt after a particularly interesting conversation he had with Combeferre the other day. After that he’s mostly free to peer through their English section and search for different studies on Shakespeare that might help him with his Romeo and Juliet essay, for his comparative literature class. He’s already read and written so much on Shakeseare since his teens, that he always feels his work is too banal, his statements threadbare and insufficient. Pére Mabeuf asks for his help with their feminist poets collection and they start a wonderfully insightful, passionate conversation which, with the accompaniment of the pouring rain outside, is extremely pleasant a way to finish a day at work.

He decides to walk home, considering it’s one of those marvelous days when he actually remembers to take an umbrella, still managing to get water in his rust brogues – Courfeyrac’s. They’re Courfeyrac’s brogues, and maybe sharing shoes as well, aside from socks, sweaters and cardigans, is one step too far, considering that they’re two sizes too big for Jehan’s feet. He’s having one of those embarrassingly pleasant moments when he feels like his life is part of a videoclip, puddles of water on the pavements and busy passers-by under their umbrellas, listening to Ludovico Einaudi’s Primavera on his earphones – quite a misleading title, he muses, of a piece that should be called Automno.

When he arrives home the rain has stopped, so he ties his wet hair into a thick braid – too long. When did it get too long, he muses, and how did he only realize with his face painted as a fawn for Courfeyrac’s photoshoot the other day, involving a werewolf Eponine, a centaur Combeferre who's had enough, and a fearsome, murderous fae Enjolras  – and makes chestnut coffee, despite the fact that it hardly ever helps in keeping him awake, to sit at his little garden in the flower escape and work on his Romeo and Juliet essay. The thing is, he gets way too distracted too function properly, he should have known he would, especially with a sky that dark and melancholic, the distant swansong of a summer that has already perished, and the absence of strong, wool-cladded arms wrapped around his torso. When Courfeyrac is at home, the mere thumping of his bare feet on the mosaic floor, his snorty giggles when he watches ridiculous 90s TV series with fake laughter on the background, and the rich scent of all the goodies he bakes, are more than enough to bring light to the apartment even on the gloomiest of autumn days. Now, however, Grantaire and Eponine are away and Jehan is home alone, his feet are freezing in his fuzzy fox socks, Shakespearean sonnets jumping before his tired eyes, and something in the air reminds him of the first day he met Courfeyrac  in this very garden, colorful droplets glimmering on the leaves of all his flowers and playing with the colors of the petals. He shudders at how much has happened since last spring, how suddenly he can sense in the first rain the same glimmer of hope as in the last, despite the formidable storm that took place in their lives in between.

There’s an eerie silence in the neighborhood, despite the early hour of the evening. The clouds weigh heavy upon his lungs, yellow and rust leaves twirling in the air, against the forlorn sight of the rooftops. Something touches him in a peculiar manner and, before he knows it, bittersweet tears are prickling on the corners of his eyes. “Back, foolish tears, to your native spring,” he chuckles ridiculously in a crackly voice, intimidated with himself, wiping them with the ink smudged heels of his hands.

“You’ve got ink on your freckles, Capulet boy,” he hears an amused voice from behind his shoulder, and his heart plummets excitedly in his chest as Courfeyrac appears outside and takes a seat on the fire escape, next to him. “Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical!”

Jehan leans in for a greedy kiss, resting to smile against Courfeyrac’s lips. “That’s wrong, you know. Juliet said that for _Romeo,_ not vice versa. Besides, it sounds like something Grantaire would dramatically recite to Enjolras!”

“My only love sprung from my only hate, ay?” chuckles Courfeyrac, and Jehan most definitely _is not_ going to admit how much his boyfriend reciting even _a word_ of Shakespearean verse is turning him on. “Though Enjolras would be nothing else but a chaste Juliet, in a scarlet Renaissance gown and a virginity belt!”

“Chaste?” snorts Jehan through his nose. “ _Please_ , Courf, we all live in nearby apartments, and we both know, ugh, chaste? Enjolras? Not in the same sentence, not in these dark times we live in.”

Courfeyrac flinches at the mental image. “Considering that Romeo and his dick that he couldn’t control nearly killed an entire village, I don’t even _want_ to consider the chaos that will ensue the revolution of R’s suppressed, pining gong!”

“That’s enough, Queen Mab,” Jehan cringes, leaning into Courfeyrac’s warm embrace and shutting his eyes tightly.

“Queen Mab? How come?”

“It’s because you bring me all the dreams,” Jehan blushes, nuzzling his face in Courfeyrac’s navy scarf. Courfeyrac plants a kiss in his hair and his warm as chocolate voice vibrates through Jehan’s skin. “You got the morbs?”

Jehan hums. “No, _ma petite marguerite_. It’s just, you know, autumn.”

“I hate autumn,” scowls Courfeyrac.

“I don’t,” Jehan raises his eyes with adoration, trailing his fingers over Courfeyrac’s cheekbone. “But then again, that might be because I live together with a precious ray of sunshine…”

“Yeah, as if flattery will get you anywhere,” Courfeyrac coos playfully, gripping on Jehan’s wrists and gently pulling him away so that he can face him. “Now, my precious forest creature, you ready to come inside and see the early birthday surprise I’ve prepared you?”

“Courf,” Jehan quirks an incredulous eyebrow. “My birthday is in April!”

“Precisely!” hums Courfeyrac. “Now, will you come in the apartment and see it or shall I treat myself?”

“ _Our_ apartment? How did you get in? Feuilly took your spare keys to come leave Grantaire’s sculpting tools!”

Courfeyrac flashes an almost seductive, mysterious smile. “The window was open,” he croons, cold hands shuffling in the pocket of his Montgomery cardigan to hold out a couple of shiny pebbles.

“What? Did you _throw_ them?”

“Well, technically no. I thought about it but I knew you weren’t inside, besides it would ruin the surprise. I’m a stealthy auror, I am! Now come on _in_ , pumpkin pie!”

Jehan’s heart is ready to morbidly burst out of his chest with excitement as he stumbles up and follows Courfeyrac inside, completely captivated by the mystery of their journey to the bathroom.

It’s the heavenly fragrances that get to him before he even sets a socked feet on the cold piles, in the bathroom  they’ve spent so many nights with Grantaire before. Tonight the apartment is all on their own, Courfeyrac has seen to it, and Jehan’s heart hitches on his throat. Small candles are already melting on the porcelain edge of the tub, lighting the water dimly. There are jasmine blossoms floating all over the surface, Jehan realizes, holding his breath, and _some meteor that the sun exhales_ seems to have exploded in the water. Or, well, a Lush Œuf du Dragon bombe de bain is just as magical, so no need to be any more pretentious there. It looks like a bath Khaleesi would be jealous of, and Jehan has to try hard not to scream in excitement.

“I can’t believe you did this,” he makes a squirming noise, burying his nose on the crook of Courfeyrac’s neck. “This… this is too beautiful for me to deserve it!”

“Well, you’re lucky enough to deserve me, so you should probably be counting your blessings,” Courfeyrac murmurs jokingly, beginning to undress Jehan of his jacket and pants, after sitting on the edge of the tub, kicking his shoes and wiggling his toes contentedly.  “Will you give me a backrub?” he asks, unbuttoning his shirt. “It’s been a day of hard labor for student Courfeyrac.”

“Oh yes, reading theatrical pieces and dancing in show tunes must be so hard,” Jehan teases, pinching Courfeyrac’s now naked tummy.

“I want to see _you_ laugh when I’ll be a famous Broadway star,” Courfeyrac snorts in mock offence. “When you’ll hope I’ll remember my boyfriend, Jehan, so that you I can introduce you to my _friends,_ uh, Idina Menzel and Rupert Grint and Ewan fricking McGregor…”

“So there’s a chance you _won’t_ remember your boyfriend, Jehan, uh?” Jehan sneers sinisterly.

“Not a big one, no,” Courfeyrac mocks him with a grave sigh, his hands stripping Jehan off his underwear and letting it pool on the floor around the poet’s lithe ankles, “since his silly name will be forced down my throat in every bookshop, next to that of E.L. James!” he gasps at Jehan’s now painful pinch on his ribs. “With glitter!”

“Don’t ever leave me,” Jehan breathes shakily on his skin, his nails digging in his biceps needily.

“Ever,” Courfeyrac assures him in his gentle voice, placing a thumb under Jehan’s chin to raise his head and force him to look at him. “I’ll never let you go, _mon faon_.” He presses his lips on Jehan’s eyelids that drift shut with a trembling breath. “I’ll take you, instead, and cut you out in little stars,” Jehan feels his limbs going numb, his pulse racing through his body, as he limply allows Courfeyrac to pull him into the dimly lit tub in an almost mystifying manner, after tapping Play on his phone that fills the room with the first notes of a Chopin nocturne. “And you’ll make the face of heaven so fine…”

“That all the world will be in love with night,” Jehan breathes as they slowly sit down on the cold porcelain and into the lukewarm water.

“And pay no worship to the garish sun.” Courfeyrac pulls him for a slow, passionate kiss that makes his body burn with fire, a kiss that tastes of bergamot and bonbons, like those little colorful clouds of foam floating around between the jasmine must taste. Jehan sinks into the kiss with a blissful, throaty sigh, as Courfeyrac’s strong fingers move behind Jehan’s neck and start loosening the already damp braid. Jehan’s own fingers are kneading deep into the stiff flesh of Courfeyrac’s shoulders, trailing wet kisses all over the beloved features, his neck and collarbone, his tongue lazily tracing circles on his chest, around his nipples and on the curves of his ribs. Courfeyrac seems to be drifting into nirvana as he emits a moan, throwing his fingers through Jehan’s wet locks and pulling softly.

They lie on their sides, so that only their heads are out of the water, their lips pressed together as if they’re swallowing life into each other. Their bodies simply fit, the water sealing with harmony every curve that meets a hollow.

They part to gasp for ait.  Jehan doesn’t know what takes him. He drags a deep inhale of oxygen before sinking his head below the surface. His eyes are open. Everything is blurry and orange, with tiny white blossoms swimming around and Courfeyrac’s satin skin just a droplet away from his lips that leave bubbles. Nothing has ever felt more freeing than the water from the inside of the tub, the illusion of their transparent skin as it makes contact with their smooth, mermaid hair. A tender, sweet warmth pools down in the pit of his stomach at the sounds their bodies make underwater. The soap in the water tastes faintly of candyfloss and citrus. He knew it.

He pushes his head back in the air, spitting and snorting water out of his nose. Courfeyrac looks silently concerned, Jehan knew that if he’d stayed underwater any longer Courfeyrac would scream and pull him out, but he didn’t. Not anymore. Things have changed, he doesn’t need to.

Jehan will pull himself.

Courfeyrac smiles and it reflects on the orange water like sunrise. “I have something for you,” he murmurs with a soft smile, pulling an already melting, little paper packet from the sink as they rest with their heads against the porcelain edge. “Another early birthday present!”

Jehan feels so touched he might soon be reduced into tears, but at the moment the lump on his throat almost explodes by the savage pounding of his heart, as Courfeyrac rips the remaining piece of paper, and reveals a breathtaking deer necklace, with bronze leaves and glorious antlers, that he clips around Jehan’s throat almost adoringly.

“I love you,” Jehan whispers and, this time, it’s almost impossible to swallow the giant lump of emotions down his throat. “I love you _so_ much…”

“And I, you, _p’tit oiseau_ ,” Courfeyrac smiles, stroking the cord of Jehan’s neck with his wet knuckles. “You ready to get out? Your fingers are soaked and already wrinkling!”

“Yes,” Jehan sighs a bit reluctantly, before turning around to press a last wet kiss on Courfeyrac’s lips. “Will you cut my hair?”

Courfeyrac pulls away, giving him a startled, puzzled look. He remains silent for a little while. “Why?”

“Cut my hair. Please.” His lips brush on Courfeyrac’s pulse point, before he pulls away and his eyes linger on those meadow green ones. “Then make love to me.”

Courfeyrac’s fingers come to play with Jehan’s gorgeous, dripping hair, absently twirling a fiery lock around his fingers. He raises his eyes slowly, swallowing down a thousand sentiments. Finally, he licks his lips, spreading a bright smile over his face. “Of course, love,” he murmurs, standing up and taking Jehan’s pale hand. “I’ll cut your hair.”


End file.
